


Forever and a Day

by purpjools



Series: Human Hazbin Roommates AU [15]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series), Helluva Boss (Web Series)
Genre: Alastor Has One Dad Joke, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anniversary, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossdressing, Domestic Fluff, Drug Use, Human Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Human Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Human Moxxie, M/M, Romantic Fluff, everyone is human, some murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:41:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27452920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purpjools/pseuds/purpjools
Summary: As much as he would like people to believe, Alastor is not as suave and sophisticated as he appears. Most of the time, he finds it impossible to live up to such grand standards.Case in point: remembering important dates. It's not so much that Alastor forgets their anniversary; it's just that he wasn't aware thatnormalpeople put such stock into arbitrary celebrations.(Or: Alastor forgets their anniversary, drops the ball, and repeatedly kicks it further away into the next dimension)
Relationships: Alastor & Rosie & Vox (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor/Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: Human Hazbin Roommates AU [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1699558
Comments: 47
Kudos: 140





	1. We Should Never Part

“Minx. Those shorts are positively indecent.”

It’s a week prior to the date, and had future Alastor been in possession of a time machine, he would’ve gone back and knocked past Alastor across the face with his fist.

“And that brassiere is amazing, dear. You definitely do it justice,” he croons, languidly stroking his cock. Alastor is decidedly not in full possession of his wit because all the blood flow has directed from his brain to his slightly smaller namesake.

“Do I? Maybe I can wear it. For next week.” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively at Alastor, who cocks his head.

Like an idiot rooster.

“Next week? What’s the occasion?”

Is apparently the wrong thing to say.

“Are ya serious?” Angel’s voice lowers dangerously. Alastor valiantly resists the dad joke as alarm bells blare in his head.

“No,” he says, lying.

“So you remember.”

“Yes, why wouldn’t I,” he hazards, avoiding the question-turned-statement as if he were a one-legged soldier hopping through a minefield. He pivots at Angel’s frown. And smiles.

Unconvincingly.

“So then, what’re we plannin’ for next week?”

Alastor’s mind fills with static. He erratically angles his body towards the exit, preparing to dash like the craven he most certainly is not-but desperate times call for desperate measures-when Angel stands in front of him, purposely blocking his escape. Alastor tries to scoot his chair around him, but it’s a futile attempt.

At the very least, he’ll be treated to a fantastic view before he dies.

Those ruffles are quite the distraction.

Fingers snap in his face. “Alastor!”

He blinks. “Planning?”

His mind, what hilariously little is left of it, is racing a hundred miles an hour. It reminds him of that time Husk cajoled him into eating something that was _not_ , in fact, an innocuous vitamin pill.

He racks his brain, flipping through all the possibilities: birthdays, promotions, funerals, anything else that warrants a celebration. Husk tapering down half a drink in the past year? Niffty overcoming her addiction to a mobile game? Charlie gaining her father’s approval for her business venture? Pentious finally recognized and welcomed into Lucifer’s fold?

He inwardly snorts. Like that will ever happen.

In the midst of this frantic mental upheaval, Angel takes pity on him, and says, “Our anniversary?”

And Alastor, because his mouth flaps faster than his brain can catch up, says, “I’m sorry?”

Angel’s jaw drops.

“Our fuckin’ anniversary, Al?”

Ah.

“When we were first intimate? During lockdown? People celebrate that?”

“Oh my god, Al! Not literally a _fuckin’_ anniversary, ya dick!”

Disbelief pitches his normally deep voice to reedy and shrill heights. “When we first started officially datin’! Jesus chri-it’s exactly a week from today!”

His shoulders droop as realization dawns on Alastor’s face.

“Ya don’t remember, do ya?”

Dread seeps inside his stomach as it sinks to the floor. Nothing will ever prepare him for the disappointment in Angel’s eyes. It’s unbearable.

Without further ado, he panics.

“Oh, look at the time!” he exclaims, hurriedly glancing at his wrist. His brain skips as he stares down at the naked skin, remembering that he removed his watch when they took their shower and failed to replace it due to unforeseen circumstances.

Involving lingerie.

“Ha, ha!” he tenaciously continues, vaulting from his seat. He pecks Angel’s cheek before giving him an unprecedented smack on his bottom due to his nervously flailing limbs.

“Time for work! You know what they say, all play and no work makes Alastor a-well, you know the rest! Goodbye, dear!”

Under normal conditions, Alastor is intrepid, stalwart to near foolishness. A brave heart to his core.

"Normal" being the operative word.

Tail tucked between his legs, he flees the scene.

* * *

“Next round’s on me.”

“Are you sure, sir? You did get the last one. I’m pretty sure that we’re supposed to alterna-”

“Thanks, Al! You heard him, lady! Next one’s on him!”

Moxxie flinches as Blitzo sidles up to him, whispering, “Ixnay, Moxx. Man wants to pay, let him pay.”

He doesn’t quite slam his head into the table because what would be the use in that, but the vein in his temple throbs unsettlingly. It’s rare enough that Alastor deigns to join their motley crew for after-work drinks, and the last thing they all want is to spook him away.

Well, everyone excluding Blitzo. Blitzo couldn’t care less, as long as it scored him free alcohol. That man doesn’t seem to have a subtle bone in his body.

A sinking realization settles in his stomach when Alastor stalls for the third time by buying yet another round of drinks for the table. His phone lights up like the fourth of July but he purposefully ignores it, carrying on conversation with Millie and, on occasion, when she’s not engrossed in her phone, Loona. He’s rattling off the merits of knives to firearms, one of Millie’s most treasured subjects (“Consider, sugar, the crossbow”), when his phone buzzes one too many times and he slams it down, face first and silencing the slew of notifications with a deft press of his finger. Loona glances up from her screen but elects to say nothing at his harried countenance.

Millie ignores the frantic move, launching into another story, giddily recounting all the grisly details as her hands flutter in emphasis. The epitome of interest, Alastor hangs on to her every word, chin propped up by a loose fist. The covert glances to his phone give the plot away, however. But true to form, no one but Moxxie notices.

Everything about Alastor is shrouded in mystery.

He arrived at the radio station years ago. He had no credentials, no prior experience, and yet the owner hired him based on charisma alone. Moxxie, a mere intern at the time, questioned his boss’s sanity, but as years went on, he reluctantly acquiesced.

The man was- _is_ -brilliant at his job.

He snares and hooks in virgin listeners like a cult leader. His sonorous cadence is nothing compared to his silver tongue. Alastor _seduces_ listeners like it’s his job, and in Moxxie’s humble opinion, it is. He weaves tales, tall and not, and slithers suggestions into their ears like the scourge of Eden. People don’t tune in just for Alastor’s voice, no. They tune in for his ideas; the way he exploits his audience’s weaknesses and frames them as not a flaw, but a boon. He plays into their egos like a fiddle. Moxxie, if he weren’t so principled against it, would idolize him.

He’s the pied piper come to life.

A lazy smirk in his direction is enough of a hint that Alastor’s aware that Moxxie is on to his game, whatever that may be. That cocksure self-awareness and attention to detail deliver chills up his spine.

“So, Moxxie,” he drawls. “How are _you_? All I hear are anecdotes from Millie”-she sticks her tongue out at him, fondly-“and I’d like to know how your so-called life is doing.”

He manages a stuttered, “it’s fine, sir” before Millie and Blitzo recognize a familiar face from across the room, and empty their chairs to greet her. Sighing, Loona does the same, her bored visage illuminated by the bright screen.

The last chair skids and stops, and Moxxie is left alone with Alastor.

Possibly for the first time.

He fiddles with his own phone, blithely pretending that he’s bombarded with text messages and emails when it’s definitely not the case. He opens and closes a few applications with zero notifications between them. When Moxxie dares to glance up, Alastor, to his chagrin, looks amused. He flips his phone face up again as if mocking Moxxie for the ruse. He fires a smile that sends jitters down his spine. Moxxie returns a wan one back.

He’s just about to throw in the towel and humor Alastor when the man’s phone lights up, yet again. Alastor forcefully exhales through his nostrils. Moxxie peeks over at the barrage of messages, all from the same person.

**My Heart**

Graced under the endearment is an avatar that skirts the line of indecent, featuring none other than Alastor’s beau: the notorious dancer, Angel Dust.

He quickly averts his eyes, but Alastor catches him snooping. Of course. His coworker is either clairvoyant or has eyes everywhere. Good trait for a radio host cum reporter to have, Moxxie thinks.

Or a serial killer.

Alastor hums. “Ah. From the boyfriend, all.” He brings the frosted glass up to his lips. “Doghouse, I’m afraid. For not remembering our anniversary date.”

Moxxie wants to laugh at his lamentable look, but reels in his amusement as survival instinct and sense trump mirth. He, unlike Blitzo, holds a lick of common sense.

He watches as Alastor’s throat bobs with every swallow. “Preaching to the choir, sir. Except the roles are switched. I just about ran Millie over with the car when she forgot ours a couple of years back.”

Alastor lifts a brow. “Really.”

The word positively drips with disbelief.

Moxxie scowls. Okay, so he fabricated that last bit. He didn’t realize that Alastor would cotton on so quickly. Or if he’s just that much of an open book, as Millie proclaims. During their aforementioned anniversary, he’d curled himself up into a pathetic sushi roll of sheets, spooled himself into the fetal position, shoved popcorn down his gullet, and binged badly acted movies.

While profusely weeping.

It’s not _his_ fault that he’s a sensitive guy. He blames the media. In general.

The phone lights up again.

This time, from a different person. Moxxie sneakily scans the first few words until Alastor slams his phone face back down with a tad more force than necessary.

**Haha asshole u dumbass he told me u forgot**

“I’m going to stamp out his miserable existence,” he declares cheerfully, knuckles stark white as they grip the neck of the glass. A shiver loops down Moxxie’s back. Goosebumps form on his skin as if someone walked over his grave.

He is fairly certain Alastor isn’t talking about Angel, and that makes everything much more sinister.

Wisely, he refrains from asking, but the whole exchange, from Angel’s text messages to the mysterious sender, piques his curiosity. However, after Alastor’s bold declaration, nothing else comes. They sit in relative silence once more. Alastor sips his beer and Moxxie feigns interest in the dart game occurring over his shoulder. The ensuing lull is so awkward that Moxxie itches to text an SOS to Millie so that she can extract him from this weird situation.

So wholly immersed in his thoughts, Moxxie ends up choking on his drink when Alastor finally speaks.

“Did marriage always agree with you?” he asks amidst the hacking fit. Moxxie gasps, thumping his sternum. Alastor carries on breezily as if his coworker wasn’t on the verge of imminent hypoxia. “Or did you require convincing?”

“I,” he wheezes. He holds up a hand, forcing out more aborted coughs. Alastor props his chin up with a loose fist, the picture of patience. When Moxxie regains his bearings and his lung control, he rasps, “Always something I looked forward to, sir.” He clears his throat, straightening up.

“As soon as I met Millie, it was all over for me. Started planning the whole thing after the first date.”

Alastor hums. He rotates his nearly empty glass. “Did you, now.”

It’s not a question, so Moxxie doesn’t bother to answer. He does, however, tongue loosened by the alcohol, barrel on. “Marriage isn’t necessarily the end-all, be-all, sir. It depends on the person.” He shakes his head. “People,” he corrects, before quietly burping into his fist.

His drinking partner lets out a prolonged sigh. He begins drumming his fingers on the table. “What _is_ marriage, anyway? I understand the basic concept, social construct notwithstanding, but not the application. Why is it of such import in people’s lives?”

Moxxie squints. For a second, he convinces himself that he’s hallucinating, but when the specter doesn’t vanish immediately, the truth slowly sinks in. Occam’s razor comes to mind.

Alastor scowls into his drink.

Moxxie, who has never seen his coworker without his perpetual smile, struggles to connect the two realities. His mind simply refuses to comprehend such an abnormality.

A disturbance in the force.

Fueled by liquid courage, Moxxie imbecilically trudges on. “Well, sir, if I may be brutally honest, it’s no real leap from an unmarried relationship. It’s just a label, really. Albeit a significant one. If I had to describe it, it’s like gradually falling in love. At first, when it hits you, everything seems strange and foreign, but then one day you wake up and realize that it isn’t that bizarre, and hasn’t been for a long time. In fact, everything feels just… _right_. Marriage is just legally confirming what you knew in your heart all along.” He taps his empty pint on the varnished wood.

“Sometimes, sir, it’s as simple as that.”

Alastor regards him for a long moment. He hoists the glass to his lips and drains it. In another uncharacteristic move unbefitting of the Radio Demon, he swipes the back of his hand over his mouth.

“Thank you, Moxxie. That was surprisingly well-articulated.”

“Not a problem, sir.”

“I’m sure Millie appreciates that point of view.” Moxxie nods, but his attention drifts to Alastor’s hands. He clutches the glass with white-knuckled fingers. He doesn’t dare look up, but the quieter, emotion-laden voice paints an accurate enough picture.

“I’ve always thought of marriage as frivolous, at best. A sham.” He chuckles, a dark self-deprecating thread woven throughout. “Now, I find myself waffling. It’s like I’m neck-deep in gator infested waters with nowhere to swim but out.”

For a while, Moxxie holds his peace. Eventually, the liquor erodes his conviction. He’s about to betray his gut instinct and broach the subject when a cold draft seeps into the bar. He diverts his focus to the doors.

Angel blocks the entrance, arms crossed, and pissed as all get out.

He scans the bar. Moxxie slouches into his chair, for all the good it does. Alastor, back facing the door, doesn’t immediately sense the danger. By the time Moxxie alerts his coworker, Angel spots them. He bulldozes his way towards their table. Both men shrink in their seats, Moxxie frantically searching for an alternative exit, and Alastor doing a semi-passable job at camouflaging into his chair. Angel stomps towards them, screeching to a stop when he reaches their table.

“Why the _fuck_ weren’t ya answerin’ your goddamn phone?”

Alastor downs the rest of his beer, pointedly looking anywhere but at his irate boyfriend.

“I’m talkin’ to ya, asshole!” Angel’s eyes slit as he spots the phone on the table. “Ya fuckin’ di-you were ignorin’ my texts on purpose?”

At this point, half the patrons quiet down, engrossed in the scene unfolding in front of them. Roughly a quarter of them scatter to the fringe, congregating in smaller groups so that their conversation isn’t drowned out by shrieking. The remaining quarter decides to outright leave, sagely predicting that the odds of glass being thrown and shattering someone’s skull will skyrocket in the next couple of minutes.

“Now, dear. Let’s not be hasty.”

“I’ll show ya hasty, ya goddamn…how many of those did ya drink?”

“Not nearly enough,” Alastor mutters. Moxxie sends him a horrified look. His coworker is either batshit insane or far too overconfident for his own good. Alastor waves his empty glass at the waitress, who nods.

“Oh, fuck no,” Angel hisses.

“Are we really about to have this conversation now?” Alastor drawls, gesturing vaguely at everything. “Here?”

“You bet your ass, ya fuckin’ piece of-”

“Hiya, Angel!”

Moxxie groans as Blitzo drunkenly plops down next to him. “Joining for drinks?” He hiccups. “Al’s buying.”

“Bet he is,” he growls. Blitzo misses the slight due to his intoxicated state, but he’s sober enough to recognize the tone. “Oh, shit! Trouble with the missus, Al? The hell did you do now?”

Alastor bristles, readying for a fight, but is abruptly interrupted by the placement of hands on his shoulders.

Hands that begin _massaging_ him.

“Trouble in paradise? Such a pity. You two make _such_ a handsome couple.”

Alastor shoots out of his seat so fast, he’s on his feet before the chair hits the ground. Stolas nimbly dodges Angel’s handbag and Alastor’s swipes like an Olympian gymnast. Moxxie squints. In this dim lighting-he can’t be a hundred percent sure-it looks like whatever Alastor’s clutching in his hand glints.

From the corner of his eye, shadowy hulking figures stalk towards them. By Alastor’s hurried scramble and pocketing of whatever the hell he was gripping, he notices them too. He grabs Angel’s elbow and steers them to the exit.

Angel snarls as Alastor yells, “Good catching up, dear fellows! See you all tomorrow!” He hisses, “Excluding you, you infernal deviant” at Stolas before ushering Angel out the door.

Moxxie finishes his drink in stunned silence as the din increases with their departure. It fills the space again.

“What a delightful man,” Stolas coos, draping himself over Blitzo’s lap. Blitzo, inebriated and therefore happy as a pig in mud, wraps his arms around his waist. Loona and Millie finally return, having missed most of the commotion.

“Where’s Al?”

“Angel took him out,” Moxxie replies mechanically.

For all he knows, he did.

* * *

“I hate that fuckin’ asshole! I swear, if he touches ya one more time-”

“Oh, do get in line, dear. I’m sure he only does it to get under our collective skins. It shouldn’t be a problem any longer. I have it on good authority that he’s sleeping with Blitzo.”

That stops Angel in his tracks. “No shit.” He wrinkles his nose. “Huh.”

“Dear, stop judging. It’s unbecoming.”

“I’m not! It’s just, um, _unexpected_ , ‘s all.” He rubs his eyes. With a start, Alastor realizes that they’re devoid of makeup, which means-

“I just get so jealous, sometimes.” He clenches his hands. “I swear, it never used to be this bad until.” He trails off, refusing to finish the sentence. Alastor knows the feeling.

All too well.

Early on, before they were officially dating, Angel cracked a joke that he did not find amusing in the least.

“Good thing your name sounds like my ex’s. That way, if I say the wrong name by accident, I can blame it on a slip of the tongue.”

He chuckled before rolling over to sleep. Alastor, at the time perpetually absconding from his own budding feelings, yanked on his clothes and stumbled from the room, feverish and mad with jealousy. It was as if claws had wrapped around his heart and squeezed.

He never thought, in a million years, that he would feel that way, ever again. Or that he would continue experiencing variations of it over time.

“I’m sorry.”

Angel gawks at him at the non sequitur, shock writ large on his face. “Uh, what?”

Alastor bores holes in the ground. “For forgetting our anniversary.”

He can’t bring himself to lift his chin, and the beer he consumed earlier on an empty stomach is doing a number on his insides. That can only explain the churning.

“Oh, babe,” Angel breathes. “Is that what this was all about?”

Alastor does not, under any circumstances, shuffle his feet. He merely shifts them. He speaks to the concrete. “I’m quite cross with myself, dear. I’ve been berating myself all day.” Alastor also most certainly does not paw at the ground with his toe. “I’m probably the first partner you’ve had that committed such an erroneous faux pas.”

He refuses to look up, but the scrape of Angel’s sandals on the gravel alerts him to his boyfriend’s proximity. Warmer hands ensconce his colder ones.

He laughs, a refreshing and effervescent sound in the frigid, lamplit night. “Baby, you ain’t the first, but ya damn well better be the last.”

With a sure hand, he grabs onto Alastor’s and leads him further into the parking lot. Startled, he finally looks up. Angel’s face pinks with exuberance even amid the chill. The car’s indicative unlocking noise beeps twice, and Angel unceremoniously shoves him into the backseat after prying the door open.

“That don’t mean you’re off the hook, babe.”

He slumps into the polyester. “Yes, and I feel terrible. You even skipped work to find me.”

“Al. You’re not getting’ my drift, here.”

Alastor suddenly finds himself with a lapful of Angel.

He straddles him, and it’s oddly reminiscent of the very first time and he can’t help but succumb to the embrace. He pillows his head on Angel’s chest. Angel grinds down, breathless. Alastor matches him in the opposite direction with fervor. He automatically bites up the column of Angel’s throat.

“But I’ll let ya make it up to me,” Angel purrs, rocking his ass over Alastor’s swiftly awakening realization.

“And baby?” He nibbles his earlobe, clamping down hard as he punctuates his point.

“Make it convincin’.”

* * *

There’s no sound to warn him.

Everything is bullets and blood and ringing in his ears, and his mouth is parched like sawdust. The last blast deafened what little remained of his hearing, and all he can do is hunker down and keep to the ground as close as possible.The man creeps behind him, too quietly, and he barely manages to disarm him. They wrestle to the floor, but the larger man swiftly gains the upper hand, and all he can do is wait for death. When the rope digs into his neck, he kicks up and away, paddling feebly with his feet. His vision blurs, but at this point, it’s old hat. He prays for his soul, or whatever is left of it, and falls limp.

This is it. He’s going to hell.

He hopes that the coroner gets his just desserts when he arrives, and prepares to shit himself.

To no avail.

The man shrieks and loosens his hold. Taking advantage of the slack, he wheezes in a harsh, staccato breath, his lungs inflating with oxygen. His attacker withers to the floor, landing ungracefully with a harsh thud. He shakily hoists himself to his feet, the world spiraling above and below him.

As he regains his bearings and some of his hearing returns, he opens his mouth.

As always, he’s interrupted.

“You’re welcome,” says the snide voice over the ringing.

He clutches his neck, gulping in long pulls of air as he regroups to something close to normalcy. If normalcy means surviving strangulation on the daily, hyperbole be damned.

Once he recovers, he peers up with watery, soot-smudged eyes.

At the goddamn devil.

“Are ya fuckin’ shittin’ me?” he spits.

“No,” he drawls. “I’m Alastor. Or: your savior and panacea. Whichever you’d prefer.”

* * *

The problem starts when Mammon incites an uprising.

Man’s always been avaricious to a fault, and a menace to boot, so this comes as no surprise.

However. Alastor thinks it’s wholly unfair that he got stuck in the crossfire, yet again. He vows never to dawdle in the city. It always leads to shit.

The common factor, in this case, and many others, appears to be Vox. Alastor jots a mental note to take care of that, later.

For now, he’s stuck with the man.

“Is your fuckin’ gun jammed again? Or do ya just suck at reloading?”

Alastor recoils at the sweat gluing their arms together in the blistering humidity. The bulletproof vests they’re wearing don’t help a lick. The dead bodies add another note of putrid bouquet to the air, and he finds himself swallowing profusely so as not to upchuck. Vox shoves back, just to be insufferable.

“Mark my words, when this is finished, you’re next.”

Vox scoffs. “Fuck you, dick. All talk and no play. But thanks, bitchface. Appreciate the warning.”

“Just giving you time to pen your own obituary, dear.” He curses. Vox cranes his neck as best he can, given the circumstances.

“What?”

“Gun’s jammed.” Alastor surveys the room. “Cover me. I’m grabbing that one,” he says, jerking his head towards one of the bodies.

“Jesus fuck. Go!”

Alastor surges, slamming down to his stomach as he slides near the body. He pries the still-warm fingers off the gun, swiftly untethering the strap from its torso. A shot rings out next to him, ricocheting off the ground near his feet. Three more fire in succession and he hightails it out of there, a bullet grazing his bicep. He swears. Adrenaline eventually will mask the pain, but for now, it stings to high heaven.

Right now, Alastor is taking great pains to realize how stupid he is. As far as he is concerned, the beginning of his anniversary with Angel went swimmingly. Morning sex, followed by brunch, then punctuated by a delightful late morning romp.

Concluded by this mess.

He dives back down to where Vox huddles. He crouches, counting down the bullets in his head and pinpointing the shooter’s location as Vox signs to him. A plan. He jerks his head, indicating to him where the man is. He inhales deeply, attempting to control his breathing to steady his aim. On the count of three, both he and Vox step out and fire.

He takes the shot.

When Alastor was a child, they all took turns smashing fruits that they pickpocketed from the store. It was a cheap way to pass the time, especially because bullets cost money, and they usually ran out of the meager amount their fathers allotted for target practice. One time, Alastor managed to smuggle out a whole watermelon. The way the rind burst, gushing, and flinging chunks of mushy, black-flecked innards was a delight to behold.

This is what it reminds him of.

_Nostalgia. Childhood. Peace._

“Boom! Killshot!” Vox whoops, pumping his fist.

He contemplates adding Vox to the body count until a loud clatter diverts their respective focuses.

“What the fuck was that?”

Alastor groans, cracking his neck. “More like _who_ , I’m afraid.” He turns to Vox in exasperation. “The holy terror,” he declares.

“I heard that.”

They flinch at her voice. “Rosie,” they chant in unison.

“Oh, thank god,” Alastor mutters as Rosie strangles the last gunman. “Here comes the cavalry.”

“Did thou call for aid?” comes her mocking lilt. She jams the knife into his jugular, holding fast as the blood sprays in an uncontrollable geyser. She narrows her eyes at their huddle.

“Bosom buddies, are we now?” she says, gripping tightly as the man jerks in his death throes. “Incidentally, what _are_ you doing here, Alastor?”

“Getting rid of the dross,” he chirps, elbowing into Vox’s side.

She rolls her eyes as the life drains from her meat puppet. “Where’s the other poor sod, Alastor?”

“Shanked him in the urinals.”

She releases the corpse to gravity. “Bloody amateurs,” she mutters, glaring at the growing stains on her sleeves.

Vox shoves him back, swearing. "Look, asshole, I know this ain’t the time, but what the fuck did ya say to Val? He fuckin’ broke _two_ of his phones! Guy’s a walkin’, talkin’ drama queen, for sure, but this was way over the top, even for him. Plus, he shot three guys.”

“Oh? Two phones, you say? Fascinating. Can’t recall, sorry.”

Vox’s leg “accidentally” collides with Alastor’s shin. As retribution, he jabs the butt of his gun into Vox’s wound. He hisses, glaring daggers at Alastor who mouths the word, “Oops.”

At Rosie’s bossy behest, they wait for the telltale cocking, or any reloading sounds, before settling back into their vitriolic tug of war. This time, Alastor speaks first.

“Fine. I _may_ have sent your cohort certain pictures and a clip of my sexual escapades with Angel.” At Vox’s upturned nose, he elaborates. “It wasn’t unprecedented, by any means. Your idiot associate practically begged for it, the foolish way he was carrying on.”

“You’re the goddamn idiot. He ain’t forgettin’ or forgivin’ that anytime soon.” Vox huffs. “Damn. You and the kid must have a wild sex life.”

“As much as I don’t appreciate your sarcasm or the blatant interest in our private lives, I’ll have you know that I don’t do things by halves. I’m extremely thorough, unlike you, and will throw myself into roles with vigor,” he insists, dramatically pronouncing the last word.

Vox rolls his eyes. “Okay.”

A long silence follows, with only the dying to interrupt that sacred space. Finding it in himself, Alastor inwardly braces for the inevitable reaction.

“By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he says as Vox reluctantly faces him. “Did you and that mangy cur ever…”

He stops because this entire question is ridiculous and Alastor should just let sleeping dogs lie. He’s not even sure that he wants the answer to it unless it’s negative because he does not want that unseemly sight plaguing his nightmares. Although picturing it could stave off orgasm for the indeterminate future during his and Angel’s marathon sessions. It’s either that or investing in a cock ring.

Vox groans and Alastor snaps out of his reverie.

“Fuckin’ A, that was one time! I was drunk, and a hole is a hole. The broad I was seein’ at the time broke it off, and we ended up gettin’ wasted at his place.” He winces as he arches and pops his back, spouting off as if he’s lost too much blood. “Went in bareback, too. Fuck. I mean, any port in a storm, but Jesus. It’s those goddamn fishnets he wears. I’m a sucker for mesh.”

Alastor stares, horrified. “Stop.”

“I mean, look. It was bad enough that he blew me, since I think he’d been makin’ eyes at me for a while, but we were both outta our minds at that point.”

“Vox.”

“He’s a champion cocksucker, I’ll give him that. I don’t even mind some ass action, either. Once in a blue moon, I’ll ask whoever I’m seein’ to do some butt stuff. Nothin’ near the size of yours, though. I’ve seen the size of your horse cock and you’d have to stretch me for weeks to even fit that hog-”

Alastor’s hands close around his throat. He gurgles for help, but it takes Rosie digging into his sides with brute force and those talons she calls nails to pry him off.

Gasping, Vox lunges for him, but Alastor simply leaps out of range. He tsks at Rosie’s admonishment.

“That was unbelievably grotesque,” he whines to her. “I refuse to subject my ears to his revolting anecdotes.”

Vox massages his neck, glaring at him. He attempts to pounce again, but his legs give out due to the lack of circulation from the blood loss or the pain. Rosie shoots him a warning for even daring to move, and Vox snaps back with a retort complaining about how it’s unfair that she always takes Alastor’s side as if he weren’t the injured party. Before Alastor can rub his wound in his face, they both receive a sharp reprimand for their troubles.

“Both of you are children, and I’m not dirtying my clothes because you can’t behave. I abhor you two equally right now, enough so that I’m tempted to withhold these pills.”

She fishes out a prescription bottle from god-knows-where and pours several into her palm. After counting them out, she passes them to Alastor. He inspects them, recognizing the markings. At his raised brow, she tuts.

“They’re powerful, but they’ll do in a pinch. Especially if you’d like to scurry off to your engagement without fainting in the loo.” He narrows his eyes but pops them in his mouth. Just as he’s finished swallowing, she scolds, “Give Vox his share, Alastor.”

He relents, flicking them in his face. Vox sputters but manages to catch them. After whipping out his favorite finger for Alastor’s viewing pleasure, he glowers at the tiny things like they insulted his mother.

“Anyone’s got lube or is this goin’ in dry?”

Alastor pretends he doesn’t hear the question. Rosie harrumphs, sending him a pointed look. Theatrically sighing, Alastor limps over to his bag and pulls out a flask. He tosses it to Vox, and it barely misses smacking into his nose.

Smirking, Vox slaps the pills into his mouth and tilts the flask. Alastor’s fingers itch for a garrote. He swallows and wipes his lips to Alastor’s disgust. He chucks back the flask.

“Thank you, daddy,” he sing songs.

“ _No_. That has sexual connotations and you know it,” Alastor hisses back.

“Whatever. So what’s this about you runnin’ off and missin’ our after-shit drinks? Hot date?”

For the umpteenth time this afternoon, Alastor refrains from strangling the man. “You half-witted simpleton, today’s my anniversary.”

Vox blinks. Dumbly.

“Oh shit.”

An unbidden sigh escapes him. He rubs his eyes tiredly.

Oh shit, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Main title and chapter titles are from the song, "Forever and a Day" by Jeremiah Burnham.
> 
> 2\. Get you a man that laughs at your homicidal sprees
> 
> 3\. Mixing painkillers and alcohol is ill-advised; author does not condone
> 
> 4\. Author apologizes in advance


	2. Like the Poets All Say

They gather up what’s left of their stash and pilfer the bodies, both men taking pulls of the flask until the deed is done. As usual, Alastor bitches the entire time. Vox fires back, volleying a deluge of filth that is met with a moue of disgust.

“You are the epitome of arrested development,” he mutters, loud enough for them to hear.

Vox lurches for him but stumbles as the painkillers and alcohol begin synergizing. He halts as his foot jams into a corpse’s side. He toes at it, rolling it over with a push. His nose wrinkles at the sudden bloom of rank odor.

“We’re all goin’ to hell.”

Alastor brushes past him. “Speak for yourself, dear.”

Someone gurgles nearby. Alastor’s soles clop on the pavement as he closes the distance between him and the future corpse. The man’s mouth bubbles, blood frothing over his bluish lips. Alastor adjusts his glasses. He hums a haunting tune, bending down. He gently strokes the man’s hair, brushing fingers against his cheek. He dips a finger and swipes at his lips, smearing the blood across the man’s face.

In an eerie, macabre smile.

Vox shudders.

Alastor is a creepy bastard most of the time, but moments like these take the fucking cake.

“Alastor,” Rosie snaps. “Stop playing with your food.”

Vox agrees. “Kill the bitch already. Jesus.”

His shoulders shrug as if relenting. A flash of steel sings through the air. The man gasps and bucks as the blade sinks, crunching past flesh, sinew, and smaller bones. Vox guesses that it punctures whatever lobe wasn’t already collapsed, especially since Alastor shoves down with what seems to be his entire body weight.

He eventually rises, swaying slightly. When he finally faces them, Vox’s throat shutters.

The expression he wears is nothing short of ethereal. He beams at them, exuding bliss and strangely enough, peace. His eyes flutter, half-closed as if in a state of rapture, and although Vox hates the man, he thinks he understands what Angel and countless others see in the guy now.

To Vox’s sheer dismay, the man is fucking stunning.

Thankfully, that changes absolutely nothing.

“Ya better not be rockin’ a chub.”

Even on cloud nine, Alastor still manages to sneer.

“Uncouth. Your priapic preoccupation is showing.” He removes his vest, cracking his neck as habit. Vox gapes.

“What the fuck is that?”

“Where?” Alastor cranes his neck over his shoulder and circles, like a very stupid dog chasing his tail.

Vox smacks his face. “Your shirt,” he mumbles through the space in his fingers. “What in fuck’s name are ya wearin’?”

Alastor’s chin dips as he finally peers down at the monstrosity: a cartoon cat sporting a bow on one ear, holding an umbrella with katakana characters written under it. Vox can only imagine what it says even without translation.

“It’s Hello Kitty,” he says, frowning. “This is my favorite shirt.”

Of fucking course it is.

“Ya fuckin’ weirdo.”

“How dare you. She’s adorable! There’s a bow on her ear. Her modus operandi is to greet people! That’s her entire catchphrase in a nutshell!” He sniffs, crossing his arms. “She’s well regarded in Japan. All over, actually.”

“Well regarded with little girls.”

“Then little girls have excellent taste. In any case, I suppose I’ll have to retire this one.”

“ _This_ one? How many Hello Kitty shirts do ya own?”

“Boys! Can we stop mindlessly bickering and move? Alastor has an important event to attend.”

“Are ya seriously wearin’ a Hello Kitty shirt to your anniversary dinner?”

“No, you fool. Well, I wasn’t planning on it. I was _supposed_ to change, but your incompetent ass couldn’t even survive a simple territorial dispute, so here I am. You’re welcome, by the way. But now it’s far too late,” he laments.

“What the fuck were ya doin’ in the city anyway? Especially on your anniversary.”

“I was running errands,” he insists haughtily. “Purchasing flowers and the like.”

“Flowers? Where?”

He points forlornly to a scattered pile a ways away next to a corpse. “There.”

Vox doesn’t necessarily feel bad, per se, but even he acknowledges that the fuck up today was solely on him. He hurriedly taps a message to one of his contacts, swooning as the painkillers work their magic. He bumps into Alastor, who grouchily jostles him back. Due to the idiotic combination of drugs and whisky, he misses impressively and topples into Rosie instead. Growling, she manhandles him and shoves him back to Vox.

Bully for them, her aim rings true. They crash to the ground, swearing.

Eventually, after a rigorous slap fight, the trio stumbles into someone’s front yard with Rosie leading the pack. They sit there while the neighbors look askance and subtly avert their eyes whenever they meet an overly exhausted glare. Alastor tilts his chin to the sky.

The last rays bleed into his skin.

Vox closes his eyes.

Sleep sweeps him away.

* * *

They slump against each other, Vox’s head lolling onto Alastor’s shoulder with Alastor’s cheek squashed against his temple.

Peaceful as heaven, Rosie thinks.

She dares not disturb their much-needed rest. No rest, per usual, for the wicked. Sin never sleeps, and all that jazz. But right now, everything is calm and content; the thin, wavering light after a rainstorm.

For a while, Rosie soaks in the well-earned serenity. The diurnal sounds quiet with the encroaching twilight, and the buzzing from the insects fade with dusk. She examines the wounds on her comatose companions, visually checking for any hemorrhaging. Deeming the prats right as rain, she clicks her tongue and judges them something fierce.

After enough of that, she whips out her phone. It’s a dish too tempting to pass up.

Lazy layabouts, she thinks, cackling in a most unladylike manner inside her head. She snaps several pictures, taking great care to capture the most unflattering angles possible, exactly how Alastor taught her.

And thus the student becomes the master.

After documenting the scene and securing her revenge, she steps back, watching the men drift in slumber. She savors the peace and the freedom from squabbling for once. Vox snorts in his sleep, causing Alastor to snuffle in return. Her chest tightens in an aberrant way. Rosie immediately disregards the foreign feeling and ignores it like she normally does. It just takes a tad longer this time.

She finds herself lingering a bit longer, in the periphery of this rare and ephemeral moment.

She lets them rest for the next ten minutes. Before she starts deliberately clanging on the nearest hollow object on the kerb (in this case, an abandoned, upturned cabinet) Rosie spots a garden hose. She arms herself with it, then bangs on the metal with the handle of her knife.

They jerk awake and predictably begin slapping each other.

Rosie sighs and turns the hose on.

* * *

In the end, they hail a cab.

The driver eyes their haggard appearance and wet, blood-splattered clothes, as well as the thick vests they hang from their forearms. Nevertheless, he confirms their destination and resolutely drives onward, keeping his eyes on the road and mouth shut.

“Right,” Rosie says, dusting off her hands. She pulls on her gloves, fastening them at the wrists. “You both owe me for saving your hides. Next time I’d like to attend a party, I expect one of you to accompany me.”

Both men exchange an exasperated look. The last time they paid their debts, Alastor got roped into a fashion show, and Vox, a children’s birthday party. Bored out of his wits, Alastor was forced to entertain insipid, vapid sycophants hellbent on entering the fashion industry. By contrast, the story Vox relayed to him about his experience seemed miles more entertaining. Apparently, the bounce house transformed into an impromptu Thunderdome after little Violet pledged revenge on Jimmy for sticking gum in her hair.

“I’d like to request the children’s party this time,” he groggily mumbles. Alastor doesn’t care much for the little hellions, but if- _if_ -he were to have a few, he’d make sure that they were properly trained.

To win. By all means necessary.

“Yeah, Rosie. Send the supermodels my way. Asshole can get the demon spawn.” Vox grunts, adjusting his shoulder. He holds the bandages in place, attempting to staunch the wound. He opens his non-scarred eye to glare at the back of the driver’s seat.

“And step on it, asshole. Man’s got a fuckin’ dinner to get to!”

He’s too exhausted to argue, so in the end, he lets the painkillers work their magic.

Alastor sinks into his seat and promptly nods off on Rosie’s shoulder.

* * *

Alastor wakes.

He yawns as Vox mumbles into his chest.

He blinks.

As his brain catches up, the working part of it screeches in fury, but Vox’s bulk and Rosie’s purse pin him to the seat. Fresh out of other options, Alastor nudges him not-so-nicely with an elbow. It veers off course and slams into his face.

At least, that’s what he tells Rosie.

“Ow! You fuckin’ bag of _dicks_!”

To his credit, the driver only swerves off the road for a second at most. Unfortunately, it’s enough time for Vox to punch him in the groin. Alastor whimpers, doubling over as he sees stars, and not in the “daddy’s coming, Angel” sort of way. It’s times like these that having a penis at the other end of the size bell curve seems less of a boon and more of a curse. As he flounders, out of commission and possibly future offspring for the foreseeable future, Rosie tuts at them.

“I should have eschewed medical school for teaching. At least then I would get paid for dealing with toddlers.”

Vox rubs his nose, hissing as he fingers the bridge. “Al’s a fuckin’ asshole! Pass it on.”

“I don’t need to. It’s bloody common knowledge.”

“Rude.”

Vox soldiers on like the first-class moron he is. He mimics Alastor’s voice, but in falsetto: “I’m a dumbass that forgot my anniversary with the best fuckin’ thing to happen to me in years!”

He means to be comedic, albeit in a nasty way, but Alastor feels the sting in his chest nevertheless. The last part is true, absolutely. The first bit is too, but the second smarts something fierce. His mind swirls from the unrecommended mixture of painkillers and alcohol. He despondently stares at the car handle.

Vox continues his barrage, oblivious and bolstered by the drugs. “I mean, shit! Ya get to come home to a sexy motherfucker and clap his cheeks, and he fuckin’ _loves_ you, and your stupid ass forgets the one thing that means everythin’ to him! As much as an asshole Val was, he never forgot-”

Reaching across Alastor, Rosie slams a fist into his sternum mid-sentence. “That’s enough,” she hisses.

Vox curses but complies. Alastor’s gaze drops to his lap. The elation from the painkillers grapples with his immense guilt, and he oscillates between the quarreling sensations like a marionette. The weight of it is crushing. Even as his mind tries to reassure him, Alastor can’t help but fish out the grains of truth from Vox’s accusations. He fidgets in his seat, at once immeasurably ashamed. Perhaps he is no better than Valentino.

Perhaps Angel deserves more. Much more.

A heavy hand lands on his shoulder. He flinches, but there’s a noticeable lag. He blames the painkillers. They loosen his muscles even before Vox mutters, “Shit. ‘m sorry, asshole. I didn’t mean that.”

Alastor shrugs his hand off, scowling. It doesn’t deter his arch-nemesis in the least.

“You’re everythin’ compared to Val. At least for Angel. The kid fuckin’ _loves_ you. I mean, shit, when he first started seeing you, it was like night and fuckin’ day. He brushed off regulars-and I’m talkin’ high rollers-to meet ya after, even if it was just for five minutes. Trust me when I say that Val never got him to act like that. Not even once.”

Vox sighs, and it rolls off his lips like guilt. “All I’m sayin’ is that ya must be doin’ somethin’ right. And if ya work at it more, then who the fuck knows? Ya don’t hit the jackpot by playin’ penny slots, right?”

Blame it on the alcohol, blame it on the pills, but Alastor barks out a laugh.

“Right.”

The lingering doubt washes away as the drugs work their magic. For posterity’s sake, he ignores Vox’s astute insinuations and focuses on his lover. Warmth invades him, from his toes to his belly, and all at once, everything is blanketed with soothing comfort.

The cab finally reaches its destination.

Vox staggers out, nose narrowly missing the ground. Alastor steps out with far more grace, and Rosie, even more so.

He arrives, singed and a bit worse for wear, but _alive_ , and limps into the restaurant.

* * *

Angel is not one for pretentious restaurants and their snobbish attitudes, even when he has the moolah for them, but this situation takes the cake. He’d talked Alastor out of celebrating their anniversary in a well-known, “who’s who” highbrow backdrop, and settled on a trendy up and coming place.

That apparently allowed t-shirts.

“What the fuck?”

Alastor slurs, swaying precariously on his feet. If his shirt wasn’t black, Angel would swear that those dark stains were blood. “Hello, darling! What’s new, pussycat?”

He throws the wilted bouquet at Angel. He spreads his arms.

“Happy anniversary, kitten!”

Angel shakes his head as if trying to dislodge something from it.

Probably his brain.

“Babe, I promise I won’t get mad,” he lies, “but, are ya high?”

Alastor grins. “Maybe!”

Angel wants to slam his head into the table, he _really_ does, but his makeup is impeccable and he doesn’t fancy leaving half his face on the tablecloth.

Angel plasters on a smile for the waiter. “Can I get like, two bottles of the same wine? Thanks.”

He smiles back, as all wait staff are trained to do, and is met with a fork jab from Alastor. Which is not at all what most waiters are trained to expect.

“Al!” Angel snaps. “Fuckin’ stop!”

Alastor does not, to his chagrin, fucking stop. He continues poking sharp implements at their waiter, who tries his utmost not to be bothered with the fact that an irate customer is trying to impale him with a cocktail fork. Eventually and at Alastor’s prodding (literally), he is replaced by a waitress who, in Angel’s own humble opinion, gives zero shits.

“Sir,” she pleads tiredly, “please stop. We get paid below minimum.”

“So long as he stops flirting with my boyfriend.”

She doesn’t skip a beat. “Christopher is married, and his husband works the bar.” She gestures abortively in the general direction of it. The bartender waves cheerily. Alastor, high as the sky, waves back, equally chipper.

The waitress raises a brow as Angel reaches over and grabs his wrist, pinning his hand to the table. Alastor beams at him, lacing their fingers together. Angel softens like the spineless idiot he is. He orders for both of them since his boyfriend can’t be trusted with anything right now, let alone reading a menu.

She leaves, and his line of sight clears. Angel squints.

“Is that Rosie and Vox? Babe, are your friends here? In the same restaurant?”

Alastor swings a hundred and eighty degrees, almost spinning out of his chair. “Hmm? Oh, I thought they were getting take out.” He hollers, “I thought you two were going to the drive-by?”

“Drive-thru,” Angel hisses, frantically glancing at the bemused staff and diners. “And shut the hell up. We’re in a goddamn restaurant.”

Vox slams up two impolite fingers from across the room. “Fuck you, bitch! We can eat wherever we want, it’s a free country!”

“Free? Oh, that’s rich! Let’s see how long you last without succor next time you’re in a pickle!”

“You can succor _my_ pickle- _ow_!”

Vox snarls at Rosie, who looks just as done with the situation as Angel. She sighs, burying her face in the menu. The waitress returns with bread and a sympathetic smile. Angel silently thanks her then scowls across the room at Rosie.

Fuck you, lady, Angel crossly thinks. If there was anyone who was supposed to keep them on a short leash, it should’ve been her.

Vox, seemingly hopped up on the same stuff Alastor is, chats up the waitress, leering suggestively until Rosie kicks him under the table. Sighing, Angel turns back to his boyfriend, whose goofy grin is fixed on his face.

He narrows his eyes. “Is that blood on your glasses?”

Alastor closes one eye and squints. “Is it? I can’t tell.”

“Oh my god.”

Angel leans over the table and plucks his frames off. Alastor owlishly blinks as Angel pulls out one of the microfiber cloths he carries in his purse and cleans them, cursing. He carefully places them back on his face. His fingers tuck them under his hair.

“Babe, if you get arrested, I’m dressin’ up as a guard and killin’ you myself.”

“Oho! Handcuffs and orange jumpsuits! I’m enjoying this train of thought, you absolute deviant,” he purrs, folding his hands under his chin.

Rolling his eyes, he looks away for one- _one_ -second to flag down the damned waiter, then turns back to his boyfriend.

Who’s drooping into the breadbasket.

Angel has no qualms reaching across the table and swatting his boyfriend on the shoulder and does just that. Alastor wakes with a start, eyes snapping open.

“Happy anniversary, dear!” he exclaims jovially. “What were we talking about, again? Prison?”

Angel whines.

Even as their conversation and erratic behavior attracts the attention of nearby diners, Angel can’t help but gaze at the firelight dancing shadows across his boyfriend’s face. It softens the angular lines into something more pliant, and less austere. His features light up the dimness as naked affection tumbles from him in waves. Angel’s heart stutters against his ribcage.

Throwing in the towel, he shakes his head as his face heats. Their fingers tangle together across the linen, and Angel accepts his fate. Amidst the quiet chatter, tinkling of glasses, and tinny scrapes from silverware trails, they cling to each other, heedless of the turning world.

It’s the easiest concession that Angel has ever made.

* * *

As Alastor chats up the waitress and possibly the whole of the bar, Angel watches with a quiet sort of pride; uncommonly taciturn considering their run this evening. He props up his chin with one hand, sipping his wine with the other. He notes how Alastor flits from person to person, enchanting them with outlandish tales, spinning yarns designed to snare the audience. His face, animated beyond compare, brightens with every bark of laughter.

This is his element, Angel thinks. A natural-born raconteur who thrives under the spotlight.

Not dissimilar to himself.

Alastor pilots over to him and drapes an arm over his shoulders. “Oh, Angel! My apologies, dear! Just conversing with the hoi polloi! Were you waiting long?”

Angel, against his fervent wishes, smiles. Even he can’t fight the affection unfurling in his chest.

“No, babe. You’re fine. I was just waitin’ on you.”

It’s true.

And Angel’s never been disappointed. Somehow or other, Alastor always comes up to speed.

“Oh! Is it time to go, my heart?” He means to kiss him but knocks his nose into his jaw. Instead of dwelling on the gaffe, he laughs merrily and brushes it off. “You heard the man,” he crows to the crowd. “It’s time for us to bid you all adieu!”

The bartender and most of the patrons echo their congratulations. Trills of “happy anniversary” and “consummate the goddamn thing already and stop shovin’ it down our throats” fill the air. Angel winks at Vox. He sighs and lifts his drink before tossing it back. Alastor pecks Rosie on the cheeks, murmuring something Angel can’t quite catch. She smirks, raising a brow. He smooths down his dress, ignoring the unprecedented spike of jealousy. When Alastor finishes saying his farewells (which includes upturning a drink over Vox’s trousers), he marches back and lends Angel his arm.

Holding his bouquet in his other hand, Angel accepts it with grace.

When they tumble into the back of the taxi, he takes a deep breath, preparing to give Alastor the third degree.

“Okay, babe. What happened? I-oh no!” Angel scoots closer, tugging at the sleeve to get a better look. “Your favorite shirt!”

Alastor frowns at the tear. “At least the blood is congealing nicely,” he says, sighing. “I’ll see if I can salvage it when I get home.”

Angel does not doubt that Alastor can, but that’s skirting the bigger issue. The elephant in the room. Car.

Whatever.

As if sensing the next question, he faces Angel, beaming. He kicks his legs over Angel’s lap.

“My darling, have I got a story for you!”

* * *

The drugs are wearing off.

His hands flutter excitedly as he recounts the tale. Swept up in storytelling, he allows a few grisly details to flavor his narrative. Halfway into describing the bathroom massacre, the car swerves. Angel curses. His hand shoots out to grab the oh-shit handle above the window. The car next to them honks.

Alastor peers at the driver suspiciously. He looks familiar, but Alastor can’t place him. Shrugging, he figures that the man must be sweltering due to the beads of perspiration at his temples. He slots his head between the seats and politely asks the man to turn the air conditioner up. He’s rewarded by a yelp and another jerky swerve of the wheel. Angel snatches his collar and yanks him back.

“Keep goin’, babe. But maybe leave out some of the more elaborate shit.”

He nods, obliging him.

Near the end of the story, after he babbles his heart out to Angel, an unsettling feeling worms into his stomach. Realization dawns on him as he slowly comprehends what he’s just confessed. To Angel, of all people. The laxity in his limbs is replaced by ice water.

Yes, the drugs are most assuredly wearing off. His brain short-circuits. Alastor attempts to backtrack. To his utter surprise-as in, top five moments he never predicted would happen-Angel bursts out laughing.

He wheezes.

It’s not particularly attractive or sexy in the least, but it’s a bright, honest sound, and Alastor loves him for it. Above all, it’s infectious. They look at each other for a second, and it’s curtains. Alastor joins in, and they double over laughing.

Alastor’s ribs hurt. But it’s a warm ache, and it spreads like wildfire.

Maybe the drugs are still working, after all.

They suck in breaths as the laughing fit dies down. Angel wipes his eye. “Babe, that’s fuckin’ hilarious.” The look he gives Alastor teems with love.

“Next time, I wanna tag along. Maybe I can help.”

Over my dead body, Alastor thinks while nodding. He would never risk losing Angel.

But Moxxie was right.

He bumps their foreheads together. Cool air trickles in through the cracked windows. They quietly catch their breaths as the sound of the city thrums around them.

It’s swell to have a partner in crime.

* * *

The air is heady and redolent with perfume.

Alastor drops his keys in the bowl near the door. His brow furrows as he sniffs the air. Angel gropes his ass on their amble towards the kitchen.

Flowers.

There are bouquets everywhere. Bunches of them litter the countertops as if fulminated from a frenzied growth. They spill over onto the floor, flowers strewn on the linoleum. It’s a veritable explosion of pigments and petals, rose hues in varying stains of pink. The breeze gusts in from the open window slats, embracing the scents and carrying them in a tumultuous maelstrom throughout the room.

“Oh, babe,” Angel murmurs, marveling at the floral backdrop. Soft lips meet his as Angel bridges the distance. Alastor tenderly responds. The kiss leaves behind a satiny residue. Curiosity whetted, Angel pulls away to inspect the room.

Alastor fishes out his phone as Angel reads the tags. There’s a bombardment of messages from Husk, ranging from panicked to rudely inappropriate.

**Doorbell keeps ringing**

**Why**

**Did u do this**

**If so fuck you**

**I’m not your fucking manslave come back and open the goddamn door yourself**

**Fuck you al**

And a single text from Vox:

**You’re welcome duckwad**

Alastor snorts. He rescinds the vow to end the man’s life within the year and instead scribbles it on his mental to-do list for the next one. Angel flounces about, inhaling deeply from each bouquet. Alastor stands off to the side, basking in the exuberance that radiates from him. Such glee is contagious, and Alastor is hardly immune.

“I love them,” Angel breathes, and the awe in his voice is enough reason for Alastor to raze the world twice over.

But to his amazement-the second one that night-Angel clasps the wilted, mangled beyond repair bouquet to his heart. He threads the stems through his fingers, the drooping petals kissing his freckled cleavage.

“And I love you.”

And because it’s their anniversary and Angel deserves the world, Alastor repeats the sentiment.

From the gleam gathering in the corners of his eyes, he knows he doesn’t have to. He shows it through his gestures, both grandiose and small.

But Alastor does it anyway.

* * *

Alastor sinks into the mattress.

Angel hums, massaging his knuckles into his back. The radio station, manned by Millie tonight, picks up steam and he finds himself singing along with Angel. The drugs have surely worn off by now, but the combination of drowsiness and kneading loosens his tongue further. Or so he tells himself.

“In another world, you might’ve picked your ex. Or Husker.”

Angel scoffs. “Sure, and ya might’ve chose not to be with anyone.” He runs the flat of his palms down Alastor’s sides.

He lifts his torso, granting Angel unfettered access. He grunts. “Well, I’m glad you’re in my world, Angel. I would terribly miss you if you weren’t.”

The bed creaks as Angel lowers himself onto Alastor’s back. He sprawls atop him, fitting perfectly in all the empty, yearning spaces. He trails kisses up Alastor’s spine. As he slots his thigh in between Alastor’s, he whispers, “In every world, I’ll be there. I promise, Alastor. I won’t ever leave ya.”

Angel drops his head between his shoulder blades. His wet lashes tickle his skin.

“Wild horses couldn’t keep me from you,” Alastor murmurs, muffled by the pillow.

Sleep threatens to steal him away, but before it does, Alastor thinks about the hidden drawer in his bedroom turned study, and the small box it holds within.

(Something precious)

“Angel,” he asks, later, with a forlorn note. “Are you upset with me?”

His voice is laden with uncertainty and remorse. And it is certainly apologetic. If Alastor had ears, they’d be drooping down.

Angel sighs and takes pity on him.

“No, babe. You’re fine.” He fans out his arms and Alastor crawls between them. He lays his head on Angel’s chest, practically purring.

Mouth full of collarbone, he mumbles, “I’m sorry I ruined our anniversary.”

Angel’s chest jostles his cheek as he chuckles. “Don’t worry, baby. You can make it up to me next year. And the year after that.”

Alastor lifts his chin. He surges up and kisses him, long and slow.

“And all the years to come,” he promises. He pillows his head over Angel’s heart.

And everything after that.


End file.
